


wear your heart on your cheek (never on your sleeve)

by south_like_sherman



Series: oh, freedom [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Borderline Poetry, Child Abuse, Depression, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Infidelity, M/M, Metaphors, Molestation, Poetry, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, ahhhhhhhhh, domestic abuse, im so sorry maria, im so sorryyyyyyyyyyyy, um it's like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-28 16:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10132973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/south_like_sherman/pseuds/south_like_sherman
Summary: "Maria Reynolds is a heartbreaker by nature, and she's fine with that. Fine fine fine fine. She's no stranger to bars, no stranger to the unfamiliar press of a man's skin against her own, and she can trace maps across someone else's skin like she's studied their contours for years. It's never the right map though. It's all wrong, and she can never find her way home because there are too many routes and she ends up kissing the constellations instead. As it turns out, the stars taste like cheap alcohol and sex, and something else. Something like fire. Something like blood. Something like heartbreak."ormaria reynolds doesn't have a heart.[trigger warning for. um. everything. be careful.]





	

Maria Reynolds doesn't have a heart. Or, she does- but it's not hers. Not anymore. It's made of strangers, of the souls of the people who press her into foreign sheets and claimed her body as their own. And when she tears the sheets apart, when she breaks their heart, she rips off a piece, keeps it for herself. She stitches them all together, jagged chunk to jagged chunk, and hopes that maybe this'll be enough to feel whole.

The thing is, Maria Reynolds isn't even her name. But it's the only one she knows. She can't remember her real name. Only that it was burned when she was eighteen, burned along with the flowers and the wedding vows and that there was something written on them called freedom. _Free-dom_. She rolls the word over her tongue, licking it out of the back of her mouth and letting it drip over her lips like blood, and tries to remember what it means.

She's a heartbreaker by nature, and she's fine with that. Fine fine fine fine. She's no stranger to bars, no stranger to the unfamiliar press of a man's skin against her own, and she can trace maps across someone else's skin like she's studied their contours for years. It's never the right map though. It's all wrong, and she can never find her way home because there are too many routes and she ends up kissing the constellations instead. As it turns out, the stars taste like cheap alcohol and sex, and something else. Something like fire. Something like blood. Something like heartbreak.

She doesn't do relationships. It's one man, then another, then another and another and another and they never stop coming and she takes them all into her arms but never lets them kiss her cheek. Directs them between her thighs instead because it's so much easier, isn't it?

Here: she's five and she's hugging her father's knees and showing him a drawing, ignoring the stains on his knuckles, so like the ones on her mother's cheek.

Here: she's eleven, and she's pretending not to hear the choked, bloody sobs in the other room and the answering shouts and she's colouring and she's singing about something. (Something that sounds like freedom. _Free-dom_.)

Here: she's fourteen and wishing for a way out and she's pressing a blade to her wrist but not moving it and imagining the roses underneath her skin. (Trying to forget the ones that spilled out of her mother.) She's crying and her father is shouting again and his hand is between her thighs and she's so confused, and she's trying to colour her father's skin with her nails and then it's his fist in her cheek and she's trying to apologise and sing at the same time but now it doesn't sound like freedom. (Stretching the word over her lips. _Free-dom_.)

Here: she's seventeen and this time it's not her father's hand between her legs but someone else's and it feels better. Not right, just- better, in a hollow kind of way, like the cheap fabric slipping over her skin. Better better better. She repeats words in the hope that they'll stay in her mind. (She imagines her mind a bit like a sieve; only catching the big things.)

Here: she's twenty and swearing something she feels like she'll always keep, she's letting go of that song and the colours on her father's back and ignoring the blood underneath his fingernails. She's smiling, and then he kisses her, with teeth and knives instead of lips. Kissing him feels like war, and when he grins there's shrapnel caught between his teeth.

She's twenty three and the make-up on her face is covering up more than just blemishes and she's fourteen and confused but that's not right because she's not- she's twenty three and she should be past this.

He doesn't kiss her anymore, or tell her he loves her. He just smiles, that sharp, shrapnel grin and pushes her up against the wall and tells her to be good and she wants to be good but she's not. Good. Good good good good good. Hopes it'll stay in her head.

There's a knife pressed to her throat. Or, maybe it's his lips. She doesn't think there's a difference. He's left scars over her body and dangled the world between his nimble fingers, and caused earthquake after earthquake and she's colouring and she's _singing_ and it's not freedom and she wants it, wants it more than anything else. Wants wants wants wants wants. _Free-dom_.

She wishes she knew what that meant.

Her body is a landscape, and there are deep ridges in it, huge chasms and gaping holes that she stuffs with seeds and earth and blood, and hopes something will grow. But her body is barren, and she never stops feeling so empty. She inhales smoke and fire and ash, slowly replaces the oxygen with fire and hopes it's enough to burn her. She stubs cigarettes against her bare fingers, against her breasts and thighs and neck and back and anywhere she can reach, and still wants _more_. More more more more more.

Then there's a boy, a boy with gold on his finger and an inferno is his eyes and she thinks _this is the answer_. _Free-dom_. (She ignores the gold. And the memories of someone else scattered around his flat, like they're already gone. There's gold on his finger, and hunger in his eyes. It's ok. She's hungry too.)

Then the boy with the shrapnel and the earthquakes and the blood is slamming her against the wall and snarling at her, something sharp and vicious and bloody, and he's baring his teeth. Like an animal. She thinks of wolves. Hopes they tear out her throat, leave her to bleed.

He's telling her she's a whore, a slut, telling her she's lucky he's not throwing her onto the street and his nails are digging into the sharp bone of her hip, and she knows it's going to leave another mark and she's so sick of being a canvas for his brush. Rephrase- a body for his knife. He's got three fingers in her mouth and all five of the other twisted in her hair, and she's choking and trying to scream but no one can ever hear, and she knows her mascara is running. Rephrase- she's crying, and her tears are black. Rephrase- her tears are ash.

Here: boy with the gold and the fire and the hunger is yelling and his voice is cracking like her lips and she's begging him to stay and he's looking at her with something like disgust. Something like pity. Then there's ash on her cheek again and he's falling into her hips and saying something about how close it is to falling into his grave. (She agrees. It makes sense that she's a grave, something for other people to fall into. She hopes someone will bring them flowers.)

Here: she wants wants cigarettes and colours and fingers in her mouth. She wants roses and a heart. She wants something to call her own and original thoughts. She wants her own name and a knife. She wants freedom.

Here: she's remembered the song again and she's singing and her voice is shattering and splintering in the air from the ash. Because of the ash. But it doesn't matter, and she's pressing the knife to her wrist again and smiling, sweet and lovely and the roses are spilling out and she's singing and she's singing and she can't stop and-

_oh, freedom_

The roses are everyone and she can't see anything but thorns and petals and-

_oh, freedom over me_

She's remembered something, something beautiful ( _free-dom)_ -

_and before I'll be a slave, I'll be buried in my grave_

How close her hips are to a grave. The flowers people will put there, the roses-

_and go home to my lord and be free_

**Free-dom.**

**Author's Note:**

> i. apologise. um,,,  
> comments are always appreciated? i need validation i will literally cry  
> title is from [this song](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=vKNcuTWzTVw) and it's good mk  
> please come stalk me on [tumblr](http://the-girl-who-cried-ship.tumblr.com) too i would very much appreciate it  
> thanks for reading! have a lovely day!
> 
> ~ Kinzie 
> 
> P. S. the song i used at the end was oh freedom by aaron neville in case you were wondering?


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